An Ailment Called Myself

I am trouble spelled out to sound like innocence, a clever decoy to pose my cruel decisions as good intent.Peel back my soft edgesand you will find broken glass, bullets and evil things. I hide the dangerous parts of me so wellmy favourite role to play is the victim.Always the one being hurtand never doing any of the hurtingbut behind hazy eyesand battered confidencelies oceans of dishonestyskies of infidelity and a universe of an entirely different woman.I am neverwho you think I am.

That which we are ruled by

The hands on the clockweigh a thousand poundsfrom holding up all these fervent livesTime, no one ever ruled the worldquite like you canWearing your crowncomprised of everyone's regretsTime is a friend of minethat I never seebut I can always feel the pressureof his companyI admire his loyaltyNever letting a moment pass him byand I know he holds handswith both life and deathbecause they all need each otherin order to existTime makes the idea of infiniteso intangiblebut we owe him the world

A half true poem

I have taken the roleas the sad writerwho loves too muchand always gets their heart brokenNo.I'm crueler than that.I use my broken heart to hide all of myown mistakes.Kissing and fucking and trying to find lovein another bed.You didn't know anything.Don't trust meI play nice and act kindand speak gentlybut I'm crueler than you could ever be.

The Mark On My Heart

I once woke up to Love he was humming happilyas he paced around an unfamiliar roomand when we spoke it sounded like magicand we both knew but never said it.A few words into the conversation andI already knew he could reach his hand outpalm facing upask for my heartand I'd hand it over without hesitance.I simply know love when I see it.Magnificent love it could have beenbut now you're floating around the worldsearching for that missing piece you always talk aboutwell maybe it's me.I'm a sliver in your brain and you're a bullet in mineand we are always cursing the hands of time.You told me you're as free as a birdhowever free they can be.But you're some sort of angel in a dishevelled disguise.

Beneath the Seasons

We have not yet adjusted to the cold, our skin still raw from summer sun.We breathed in our flaws months ago, let them cloud up our lungsand only now have we begun to exhalethe air surrounding us is filled with our weakness.I reach my hand out to touch youI can see it but god damnI can't feel it.I can't feel you.Far too many moonlit mistakes madein thick humiditywith wind on our skin.We thought maybe if we held our breath long enoughthe summer air would dwell within usBut this autumn breezehas a way of stealingthe purity from under meIf any remains at all.I stare inside myself,